The Retreat by Patrick Rambaud Page A

provisions? Anyway, it’s an order, for Heaven’s sake!’
    They set off at a walk again though passable streets, taking the long way round to skirt the fire and get out into the countryside. The sound of flames and crashing roofs was accompanied by the howling of guard dogs which, as was customary in Moscow, were chained up outside many of the palaces; forgotten, they were burning to death. Sebastian saw some under a peristyle. Driven into a frenzy by the heat, the creatures were scrabbling at their scalding chains but the metal wouldn’t give, the fire was surrounding them, holding them prisoner, they were darting in every direction to try to stop the pads of their feet from burning. Beams were crashing to the ground, showering them with sparks, their coats were catching fire, and they were howling themselves hoarse one last time before they roasted alive.
    Then the troopers followed the banks of the Moskova, passing charred bridges; the piles were breaking off and smoking and spitting in the water. They took a stone bridge, which had withstood the fire in that suburb; below, the river washed along blackened timbers. The road was lit by the blaze. In the plain, homelier fires marked the bivouacs of Davout’s army corps.
    They turned their backs on the torrid city and set off towards Petrovsky, which the Emperor had retired to. The road was narrow (it cannot have been more than three metres wide), so they were unable to pass a berline that had stopped in the middle, taking it up completely. The captaindismounted grouchily, intending to give some postilion in a drunken stupor a good shake, and walked round the berline. An open barouche had overturned on the verge; the occupants of both vehicles were straining to get it back on its wheels with a lot of panting and shouts of ‘Ho!’
    â€˜Excellent timing,’ exclaimed one of the passengers, who was brick red and running with sweat, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up; he was mopping his forehead with a lace petticoat.
    â€˜Anybody hurt?’ asked the captain.
    â€˜Just some bumps and spoiled flour.’ He pointed to the torn sacks in the ditch. ‘I know this damned road is difficult, but if the coachman hadn’t drunk so much … It is not as if you can complain about the light!’
    His cheeks quivered as he looked at Moscow. Somewhere a grating melody began which set their teeth on edge; suddenly downcast, the man exclaimed, ‘It’s Bonnaire! He thinks he can play the violin.’
    â€˜Monsieur Beyle?’ asked Sebastian.
    â€˜Ah, it’s you, is it, Monsieur le secrétaire? Bonnaire, yes, Bonnaire, the stupidest, most timorous spoilt child I have ever met! Hey! You there, stop him murdering Cimarosa! That’s what he claims to be doing, Monsieur le secrétaire – playing Cimarosa on an out-of-tune violin he stole a moment ago!’
    At a signal from the captain, Trooper Bonet marched up to the violinist who was mangling Cimarosa’s ‘Secret Wedding’ and grabbed his instrument. ‘Confiscated!’
    â€˜Leave me alone!’ cried Bonnaire. ‘What gives you the right?’
    â€˜Our ears! These gentlemen don’t like your noise.’
    â€˜Noise? Boeotians!’ Bonnaire protested, hitting the dragoonwith the bow. Bonet parried the blows with the violin, which he held like a racket; a string broke with a crack and whipped Bonnaire in the cheek, who began yelping, then sniffling, tears pricking his eyes, before running off and shutting himself in the berline to sulk in earnest. Bonet threw the violin onto the plain, then rejoined his companions and helped them set about righting the barouche. Even with the extra pairs of hands, it took a long time before they got the carriage back on its wheels. Then, dog-tired, they continued on their way together in silence. It was eleven o’clock at night.
    As they pulled away from the city, they saw the moon